


Mad Dragon

by banksoflochlomond



Series: Lightbringer [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Azor Ahai Prophecy, Dragon dreams, F/M, The Mad King is Mad, but yo i care, i promise this is actually important lore, to the story that i am building, what else am i gonna do with my summer, which probably no one cares about, who'da thunk it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-04-11 18:57:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19115728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banksoflochlomond/pseuds/banksoflochlomond
Summary: His father tells him that they are dragon dreams.“Daenys the Dreamer had them,” he explains, bouncing Aerys on his knee. “She dreamed of the destruction of Old Valyria, and her father took heed, and sailed them to Dragonstone. Valyria fell twelve years later, but the Targaryens did not.”Aerys shakes his head. He is only nine years old, but he knows that these cannot be dragon dreams. They cannot be true. “I wouldn’t burn a man with wildfire, Father,” he says. “That’s not me.”Aerys II Targaryen dreams of the future, and of fire.





	1. Dragon Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> it has come to my attention that GRRM doesn't like fanfiction.
> 
> after very little consideration, i've decided that i don't give a fuck.

His father tells him that they are dragon dreams.

 

“Daenys the Dreamer had them,” he explains, bouncing Aerys on his knee. “She dreamed of the destruction of Old Valyria, and her father took heed, and sailed them to Dragonstone. Valyria fell twelve years later, but the Targaryens did not.”

Aerys shakes his head. He is only nine years old, but he knows that these cannot be dragon dreams. They cannot be true. “I wouldn’t burn a man with wildfire, Father,” he says. “That’s not me.”

Jaehaerys pulls Aerys closer to him, wraps Aerys up in his frail arms. “You are young, Aerys,” he says, “and you are still innocent. But the dream felt real? It felt as real as you and me, right now?”

Aerys nods slowly.

 

“Then it is a dragon dream,” he says. 

“Father,” Aerys says, “why would I do that to someone?”

 

Jaehaerys bites his lip. He looks pale--then again, he always looks pale. “I am sure you had your reasons, Aerys,” he says. “A king always does.”

 

Aerys hesitates, but begins to nod.

Despite the horrible screams of his victim, he  _ had _ felt a certain sense of satisfaction. Something flickering and addictive within him. He has never felt that before; only something that was right to him could make him feel that way. No matter how much the man he had burned had suffered, Jaehaerys was right. Aerys must have had his reasons--will have his reasons?--for acting so.

“I’m sure you’re right, Father. It felt like I was doing the right thing, after all.”

 

***

 

Rhaella is his sister, and Aerys will always see her as only that.

 

She is younger than him. Though their age difference was a small one, Aerys remembers her birth. How she had wailed and shaken and coughed. His mother had called her choleric, and said that it couldn’t be helped, but it had annoyed Aerys to no end. He remembers her screams, like dragon screams, loud enough to echo through the Red Keep, keeping him awake during the nights.

Although Rhaella eventually recovered, she still clutched to their mother’s breast as she had in the throes of her sickness. Aerys remembers how she would wail every time someone had tried to take her away. 

 

Sometimes it still seems as though she is wont to do so; Aerys sees her imitating their mother in the way she walks, the way she holds her chin, the way she tries to move her skirts as she walks. Rhaella follows her mother as if Shaera were a compass, and tries to adopt every mannerism that Shaera possesses.

 

It annoys Aerys. 

 

Rhaella is prim and proper and every inch the princess she was born as, but she doesn’t  _ have  _ to be. She does not understand the joys of riding, or hunting, the joys of letting yourself run wild like fire. She is self-contained, poised, and shuttered. Her new disposition does not fool Aerys, though; every time he looks at her, all he sees is a sniffling babe, terrified of the world and clutching to her mother’s breast.

  
  


And still, his father insists that Aerys marry her.

  
  


“It isn’t fair,” Aerys tries to argue. “You married for love, but I must marry her because you say so?”

Jaehaerys pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes, and that has been the way of the Targaryens for centuries,” he says. “I know it’s not fair, but I was the exception to the rule, and exceptions cannot be made forever, Aerys.”

“I don’t want to,” Aerys says.

“That doesn’t matter, ” Jaehaerys says. “Sometimes, things are more important than ‘want.’”

“Like  _ what, _ exactly?” Aerys demands.

  
  


Jaehaerys sighs and leans back against his desk. “Aerys...you remember your dragon dreams?”

Aerys blinks. “Yes?”

  
  


He still has them, sometimes. Never anything specific, but always repetitive now. 

 

It was always cold, and dark, and empty, in those dreams. The smells of something rotting, and the stench of ice, so cold that it burned more than flame ever could. 

And then the breath of fire, lighting up the world. Searing and blinding and wonderful, chasing away the dark, filling him up from the inside with flame. A goodness that left him feeling full for days after the dreams.

  
  


“Others also have the gift of prophecy,” Jaehaerys tells him. “And it would be foolish to disregard them.”

“Father, I’m not sure I quite understand.”

“I met a witch when I visited Prince Duncan,” Jaehaerys says. “A powerful woman, although she didn’t look it. She told me that you and Rhaella would produce the prince that was promised.”

 

“The prince that was promised…” Aerys’s breath catches. “You mean Azor Ahai?”

 

“I believe so,” Jaehaerys says. “And if she’s right...I cannot deprive mankind of its hero, Aerys. No matter how much I would love to see my children happy.”

Aerys frowns. “But father, I could be Azor Ahai.”

 

He can see it already--he has power in his bones, he knows it. The blood of a dragon. He could save mankind all on his own.

He didn’t need the too-prim, too-proper Rhaella.

 

“After all, I have dragon dreams,” Aerys says, warming to the idea, “and I’m promised to the throne. That makes me a prince who is promised, doesn’t it?”

 

Jaehaerys shakes his head. “Just because you want something to be true, Aerys, doesn’t mean that it is,” he says. “I must heed the Gods.”

 

Aerys frowns. His stomach turns over in his chest.

His father doesn’t  _ believe  _ in him?

 

“I could be!” Aerys says, with more force. “I--I’m powerful, and I’m strong. I’ll be a great ruler, you said so yourself!”

“Just because you don’t want to marry Rhaella--”

“I don’t  _ care  _ about that,” Aerys snarls, “I’m saying that I could save mankind without your stupid witch. Azor Ahai is meant to stop the Longest Night, right? I could as well. I dream of fire  _ every night, _ Father, the Gods are telling me this for a reason. I’m  _ special, _ and I don’t need a descendant to do what I could do myself.”

Jaehaerys only shakes his head, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Everything has a time and a place, Aerys. You are meant to be a good king. And your descendants will save the world, and your lineage will be remembered for that. And you should be grateful.”

 

Aerys’s hands, like claws, curl up and then extend. He doesn’t know how to explain to his father the  _ itch  _ that he feels, the absolute shock of cold that ran through him when Jaehaerys spoke. Aerys is not meant to be  _ cold. _ Aerys is meant to be on fire. And so is Azor Ahai, and if that does not mean something, then the Gods are as daft as the men they created.

“It’s not enough,” Aerys says quietly.

 

Jaehaerys slams a hand down on his desk, and Aerys almost jumps back from the shock of it. Jaehaerys sighs once more, louder this time, and stands up straighter, lips pressed together. “Aerys,” he says slowly, “you have a promised throne, and a castle, and millions of people to rule. That is more than anyone deserves. If you always want more and more and more, then you become no better than a fire itself. And a fire is not meant to rule, Aerys. It is only meant to consume.”

 

***

 

The night before Aerys’s wedding day, he dreams again.

 

It is cold, and dark, as it always is in the beginning. Only this time, it is so cold that it hurts Aerys to suck in breaths. He feels as though his lungs will freeze in his chest. That his veins will stop flowing, for they will become ice instead.

Aerys blinks in the darkness. He begins to pray for the flame that always returns, to return once more and allow his blood to run hot again. His hands and feet have already become numb, no more than tingling blocks of ice attached to his body.

 

Suddenly, two bright blue lights wink into existence, only five feet ahead of him. Round, small lights, glazed-over but staring directly at him. 

Eyes.

 

They lunge forward at him, and Aerys gasps, causing him to suck in more of the icy air. He tries to stumble back in the darkness, but ends up falling when his feet won’t obey him.

The thing snarls at him, but he cannot see it aside from its ghostly eyes. Aerys tries to shrink away, crawl away--a freezing sort of fear is building in his chest, coating his throat and his mind. He begins to shiver violently from the cold, and the thing still lopes toward him, as he tries to scramble away.

 

Finally, after too-long a time, the flickering flame appears once more, blocking him from the blue-eyed freak. It scrambles away from the flame, hissing and snapping. Aerys breathes, feeling his chest loosen up. He’s able to twitch his fingers, his toes, and he nearly cries when he realizes.

 

He turns to look at the thing on the other side of the wall of fire, and almost screams.

 

It was--

It wasn’t  _ natural. _

 

Its face half-rotted off its body. Skin grey, papery, flaky. It extends a hand that is more like a claw toward him, and he sees the yellowing nails, skin dripping off its finger bones, revealing the gore and black bone underneath. As soon as it reaches closer, however, it hesitates, and slowly withdraws, back into the darkness.

Aerys hears distant growls, sees distant shadows approaching. Another rotting arm shoots out near him, but recoils instantly as soon as it touches the heat of the fire.

 

It hits Aerys suddenly, like a gust of hot air: they couldn’t reach him. 

Because of the consuming flames. 

They couldn’t reach him.

 

The fire burns hot, searing--too hot. But as Aerys watches the flames grow, a smile begins to stretch across his face as he watches it push back the corpses on the other side of the flame.

  
  


***

 

Aerys wakes up with a start and a great moment of clarity.

  
“We’ve got to  _ burn them _ ,” he says, eyes bright, to no one at all. “We’ve got to burn them all.”


	2. The Tragedy at Summerhall, Part I

_ A dragon, teeth as large as Aerys’s head, eyes like lava and scales like coal. _

_ The blue-eyed corpses--tens, hundreds, maybe thousands of them--clambering, snarling, screeching, trying to get toward him-- _

 

Aerys wakes with a gasp for the third time that night.

 

***

 

“Are they called dragon dreams because sometimes you dream of dragons?” Aerys asks his father. His fingers trail the shelves of books that line his father’s chambers.

 

He’d been spending more time out riding, as well as in the town brothels and bars, but both Steffon and Tywin had other things to attend to at the moment, so he had retreated to his father’s quarters. Ostensibly, to shadow Jaehaerys and learn of some of his royal duties as Crowned Prince, but he knows Jaehaerys likely saw through the ruse.

  
  


Jaehaerys pauses and sets down his quill. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for the ride to Summerhall?” 

“It’s a matter of a few clothes,” Aerys says, waving his hand away. “It won’t take but a moment.”

“We leave in a few days, and the trip is long.” 

“I’m not Rhaella, I don’t need to be picky about my clothes.”

“And how is she?” Jaehaerys asks. 

 

“You know as well as I do,” Aerys points out. “Maester Pycelle says it’s likely to be a boy.”

Jaehaerys nods. “Perhaps I should have rephrased,” he says. “How are you to each other?”

 

Aerys shifts, and presses his lips together. “She is fine,” he says, “as am I. She carries a trueborn heir, and she is respected by the people. I don’t know how much more you’d like, Father.”

“I apologize if I seem forward,” Jaehaerys says gently. “I only meant that you seem to be avoiding the Keep more and more.”

“Perhaps I’d rather  _ experience _ the world that I am to rule, rather than sit around and read about it,” Aerys says, gesturing at the numerous volumes around Jaehaerys’s chambers. “When was the last time you spoke to the common folk, Father?”

“There is no reason to be rude,” Jaehaerys says firmly, “when I have asked you a simple question. You must keep that temper of yours in check, Aerys.”

 

Aerys only crosses his arms and frowns.

 

“You know that my health forbids me from too much of the city air,” Jaehaerys says. “I get my information other ways. And there is something to be said for remaining where your duties are located, rather than trying to run from the very same place.”

“I’m not running from anything. I’m not neglecting  _ anything. _ Are my lessons not finished? Have I not finished combat training? What I do in my free time is none of your concern,” Aerys says.

“No,” Jaehaerys says agreeably. “It is your wife’s.”

 

Aerys feels something hot and bloody race through his chest. “I have given her my seed,” Aerys says lowly. “I have wed her, and I have fucked her, and now she is to have the precious child you crave so much. What else would you have me do? I made myself clear, before all of this, Father. I could do whatever you needed, and yet you wanted me to go through with it  _ anyway. _ And I have. Whatever happens now is none of my concern, for I have done. My. Duty.”

 

Aerys whirls around on his heel with a flourish and nearly stomps out of his father’s quarters. He feels stormy with anger. His face is warm, as are his tightly-clenched fists.

He needs to find Steffon or Tywin. He needs to find a brothel, a tavern, a  _ sword. _

All that he’s done for his father, and his father asks for  _ more. _

 

Aerys nearly burns with rage.

 

***

 

_ The dragon screams, so loud and piercing that it could shatter ice. _

_ It flaps its wings, once, twice. Great billows of air knock back the corpses as they scramble toward it. _

_ It screams again, and its throat burns bright as it produces large columns of flames. _

 

_ The corpses fall as its flames bellow outward, all-consuming. _

_ The corpses cannot rise underneath the power of a dragon. They cannot hope to win. _

 

***

 

“Why don’t you want us near to Grandfather?” Rhaella asks, rubbing at her overgrown stomach. Maester Pycelle has predicted that she could give birth any day now, and had even recommended against her presence at Summerhall. Rhaella insisted, however, arguing that it’s her duty to stay at court.

Rather selfishly, in Aerys’s opinion. Aerys knows it’s because she’d rather gossip with the ladies at court, but in doing so, she is endangering their son.

  
  


Shaera hesitates, risking a glance around at her new Summerhall chambers. “Mariam, Nola, would you please leave us for a moment?”

Her handmaidens glance upward from their work of unpacking Shaera’s things, and curtsied, quickly exiting the chambers and shutting the doors behind them. Shaera settles down on the edge of the bed, and gestures for Rhaella to take a seat as well. Aerys remains standing, staring at his mother with narrowed eyes.

 

She sighs. “You both are aware of dragon dreams, yes?”

“Of course,” Rhaella says. “Aerys has them sometimes.”

Shaera nods. “My father the king has been having dragon dreams lately, too. He...he believes the only way to exert his power is to reintroduce dragons to the world.”

“But that’s impossible,” Rhaella says. “Dragons have been gone for centuries.”

 

“I know it well, love,” Shaera says, as Aerys begins to pace. “Some other Targaryens have also attempted to reintroduce dragons through various means. All have failed, and there were heavy prices to pay. I fear that if King Aegon attempts it, he will hurt himself and others around him.”

“But we’re at court,” Rhaella points out. “It’s not as if we can avoid kin, much less our own family--”

“What if he can do it?” Aerys asks suddenly. 

 

“Do what?” Rhaella asks, blinking owlishly. She seems a bit miffed about being interrupted, but Aerys doesn’t care. He stills in his pacing, and begins to rub his chin.

“Raise the dragons,” Aerys says, sitting down. “I’ve told you about my dreams, Rhaella, yes?”

“I’d hardly call those dragon dreams,” Rhaella says stiffly. “I’ve never heard of such a thing as a walking corpse.”

“A walking corpse?” his mother asks, gasping.

“They  _ are  _ dragon dreams,” Aerys says. “I know it. And I’ve been having more, recently. With a dragon, and he and the flames are the only things that stand in between the corpses and me. And it beats them, every single time.”

 

“Surely it cannot come to pass,” Shaera interjects. “Aerys, I know you believe they are dragon dreams, but perhaps--perhaps they are more metaphorical. I have never heard of these walking corpses that you speak of, and though King Aegon may have a chance of resurrecting dragons, I doubt it is for the purpose of which you speak. He himself has told me that he desires dragons to maintain control over the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Perhaps,” Aerys says. “But if Grandfather manages to raise his dragons from the stone…well, then we’ll find out for sure.”

  
  
Aerys smiles, in spite of himself. “Perhaps only they and I can save this world. Perhaps  _ that  _ is what the dragon dreams mean.”


	3. The Tragedy at Summerhall, Part II

“To our family,” King Aegon V Targaryen says, raising his goblet. “The old and the new.”

 

Sounds of affirmation fill the hall, and everyone raises their goblet as well.

“And to power,” King Aegon V Targaryen says, “May she run strong in our family, and save us from destruction.”

“May it be so,” Aerys says, echoing the words of those around him.

“Enjoy the feast!” King Aegon commands, and drinks from his goblet. Everyone else follows his lead, and begins to sit back down. He has a gleam, like fire, in his eyes. Over the clamor of people settling in to eat, King Aegon says, “I expect our months here to be the birth of a new era for the Targaryen Dynasty.”

  
  


Rhaella lets out a little moan of pain, and places a hand on her belly.

“Are you all right, Princess Rhaella?” A servant asks worriedly, scurrying around to refill her and Aerys’s goblets. “You seem pale, Your Grace.”

“I’m all right, thank you,” Rhaella says, though her eyebrows are still knitted together as she rubs her stomach. “I think the little one is anxious to get out, is all.”

“Shall I call the maester?” The servant asks, glancing around. He seemed sweaty, Aerys noticed. Perhaps just nervous. He spoke rather quickly, and kept glancing at Rhaella’s belly as if it were about to pop.

“That’s quite all right, goodman,” Rhaella says, although she is clearly biting back another wince. “I don’t think he’s quite ready, yet.”

“But soon?” Aerys can’t help but ask.

Rhaella reaches for his hand, and moves it to her belly. The baby kicks as soon as he touches her stomach, and Aerys’s eyes widen. 

“Soon, my love,” Rhaella says softly. “And I believe that he’s excited to meet you--he hardly ever does that unless you’re around.”

Aerys feels his eyes well with tears, and he clears his throat quickly and turns back to his food. “Well, that’s...good. Great. I’m excited.”

He’s surprised by how much he means it.

 

***

 

After the feast, Rhaella returns to her bedchambers quickly, claiming exhaustion. Aerys watches her retreat, vaguely concerned. She’d be surrounded by her handmaidens, though; if something went wrong, they would surely help her out.

 

Aerys decides to take a walk along the grounds of Summerhall. It was too early for him to turn in for the night, and besides, he’d always enjoyed Summerhall. Its nights were like no other--as warm as the days, with bright, twinkling stars that threaded through the sky, so numerous that Aerys had become convinced that he walked under a different sky than the one at the Red Keep.

There were no sounds from the city, no cries or shuffling or drunken shouts. The quiet was unsettling, but the warmth of the night reminded Aerys of where he was, who he was. His love of this kind of weather was what made him a true Valyrian, through and through.

 

“How can you stand this heat?” A voice croaks out, and Aerys turns to greet it, eyebrows quirking upward.

 

There was a silhouetted figure about twenty paces from him, though the figure was moving closer with uneven, twisting steps. As it got closer, the moonlight only lighted upon a grey, tattered shawl, now limp and wrung through gnarled hands that were as wrinkled as tree bark. 

Finally, it is close enough for Aerys’s eyes to adjust, and he realizes it is a woman. A very old woman, indeed. The moonlight finally found her face, and Aerys found himself taking a step back involuntarily. 

 

Her face was as wrinkled as her hands, with two dark eyes that protruded out from underneath the sagging skin. Her hair was thinning atop her head, and hung down in wisps like the tips of dandelions. Aerys assumed that the shawl was meant to offer some protection for her scalp, but she had taken it off. Perhaps from the heat; though she wore a light shift, there were dark, rancid stains visible even under the night’s light near her neck and armpits.

 

“How can you stand this heat?” she asks again. Her voice is as cracked and broken as the ancient Valyrian ruins. “I can hardly breathe it in without feeling as though I am breathing in fire.”

Aerys, a bit startled, doesn’t ask her for titles or names. “I am the blood of a dragon,” he says. “I love to breathe in fire.”

The woman peers closer. Her dark eyes seemed like black pits without end. “Yes,” she says, “I suppose you do, King of Fire. Or, perhaps, I shall call you the Mad King.”

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Jenny brought me here,” the woman says, which is not exactly the answer that Aerys had been looking for. “I thought that I should meet Azor Ahai here. A tragic mistake that I have made. A tragic mistake indeed. Will you go after them, though, Aerys? Would you risk your honor, your life, for your blood? Or is it only yours that you care about?”

“Azor...Ahai? Are you the one--the  _ witch-- _ that spoke to my father?”

The witch nods. Her thin, blue pale lips pull downward into a sad, withered frown. “Maybe that was another mistake,” she says. “I do not know. I cannot feel the gods tonight.”

“Is something wrong? Should I--should I tell someone? Rhaella is in Summerhall at the moment,” Aerys asks, his mind suddenly flashing to his mother and father and sister-wife. His knees feel weak, like they can’t support his own weight. “She’s meant to give birth soon, if there’s something wrong, you have to tell me, witch.”

She only shakes her head. “Nothing that you or I could fix,” she says. “We are but pawns in a larger chess game. And  _ you _ ,” she says, eyes suddenly flitting to Aerys, “so like a dragon. More dragon than any of the Targaryens borne, but a weak echo of the Targaryens yet to come. Yes, Azor Ahai will be borne tonight.” She turns her eyes skyward. “I can see the Red Comet.”

Aerys turns his eyes up to match hers, and he sees it: a red line, like a scythe, through the air. “Does that mean--my son, does it mean…?”

“He will reach greater heights than you,” the witch says suddenly, “and he will be more loved than you. Remembered better. Does that make you angry, Mad Dragon?”

“I’m not jealous of my own son,” Aerys snaps. His nails bite into his palms. How dare the witch  _ say that  _ to him. Belittle him like that. Of course he wasn’t jealous of a little baby, still unborn. The witch didn’t know what she was talking about. “I’ll be a great king. I know it better than you.”

“Perhaps,” the witch says. Her frown deepens, and her eyes seem to droop. Horrifically, big wells of tears begin to build up suddenly, without warning, and Aerys takes another step back.

 

“Oh, Jenny,” she says softly, “I am so sorry. Oh, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny. Oh, I must go now. I have to. I’m so sorry, neither of us should have come, oh, Jenny...”

The witch turns to leave. Her chin wobbles, and she gathers the skirts of her ratty shift in her hand, as if prepared to run. Aerys balks at the sight, and demands, “Where in the hells are you going?”   
  


“I must go now,” the witch muttered again. “Oh, Jenny. Oh, Jenny, Jenny…”

Aerys frowns, and starts after her.

 

And  _ that  _ is when he hears the first scream.

 

***

 

At first, Aerys thinks it may be Rhaella giving birth. The pains she had felt, her exhaustion--it would make perfect sense.

But as Aerys turns toward the castle, he sees unmistakable orange-red flames, and his blood turns to ice, to ash, in his veins. 

 

“No…” he whirls around and screams for the witch.

But the night is dark, and the castle is bright with flame, and Aerys has nothing to do but break into a dead sprint toward the castle.

 

The fire is in the west wing, and Rhaella and his parents are in the east wing, thankfully.

But his grandfather, King Aegon V, is in the west wing.

It could be an assassination attempt.

It could mean--

 

It could mean Rhaella is next. Rhaella, sweet Rhaella, too-prim, too-proper Rhaella. Rhaella, giving birth to their son, the (possible) savior of the realms of Men. The child that Aerys was to be remembered for.

Aerys bursts through the main gates of the Keep.

 

“Your Grace--”

“Your Grace, the fire--”

“Is it wise to jump into flames, Your Grace--”

The guards immediately run to him, desperate voices intermingling as they attempted to grab at his arms, block him from entering the castle.

 

“My family is in there, Sers, and if you know what is good for you, you will unhand me,” Aerys bites out.

“The main entrance will soon be swallowed by flame, and there are other ways out, Your Grace,” one of the guards says. “Your family is likely safe, escaped through one of the other entrances. There is nothing you can do, Your Grace, and your family needs you.”

 

A snippet of his conversation with the old woman floats through his head, cutting off the guard’s ramblings in front of him.

_ Will you go after them, though, Aerys? Would you risk your honor, your life, for your blood? Or is it only yours that you care about? _

 

He can almost see the old woman’s pale blue frown, her eyes dancing, dark as the black night. Oh, she’d been taunting him. She must have been. Why else would she question his honor like that?

 

“Fuck off,” Aerys says, and shoves his way out of the guards’ grips, into the burning castle.

 

***

 

The guards were correct, unfortunately; the flames had spread incredibly quickly, and Aerys could feel the tremendous heat of the growing flames.

 

Incredibly, it wasn’t too uncomfortable, although the smoke was a different matter. Aerys began to cough and sputter, taking off his tunic to breathe through it as a sort of filter. It was too hot for a tunic, anyway.

Aerys shut his eyes to the stinging of the smoke, and plunged into the castle.

 

He had to get to Rhaella, to Jaehaerys, to Shaera. He had to make sure they were safe. The witch’s croaking voice seemed to be lodged in his skull.

 

He hears the cracking before he sees the pillar begin to fall, and Aerys jumps out of the way as it tumbles to the ground, sending up more ash and flame.

 

Rhaella, and the baby. They were important to the bloodline, to Aerys, and he needed to get there. Aerys tries to lunge forward, but with the smoke everywhere, he doesn’t know which way he seems to be going. Aerys walks backward, trying to find a wall, anything, to guide his way.

 

He accidentally steps into the flames.   
  


Aerys is prepared to scream, to cry out, to come away burned and red and bleeding.

 

The flames dance over his skin, and all he feels is a tickle of warmth along his body. An invitation to come in further.

 

Aerys still feels the stinging of the smoke, the cough and irritation in his lungs, but as he steps into the flame, it seems to dissipate, leaving the tickling too-warm warmth of the flames. His shirt and trousers catch on fire, burn away over his skin, and he doesn’t notice as they turn into a pile of ash around him.

Aerys walks slowly, but surely, through the flames. Though they burn hot, and bright, licking the walls and ceiling of Summerhall and sending debris falling to the ground, Aerys walks calmly, further into the flames. He will find a way out, surely. 

 

Rhaella and their son, their mother and father, don’t feel as important any more. Not as important as the flames dancing over him, but never burning him. 

 

_ More dragon than any of the Targaryens borne, _ Aerys suddenly remembers the witch saying. More dragon, indeed.

And then, another, sweeter voice--his mother’s voice:  _ “Aerys, I know you believe they are dragon dreams, but perhaps--perhaps they are more metaphorical.” _

And perhaps they are.

 

Aerys understands, now.

 

***

 

“He failed,” Jaehaerys says softly, his fingertips steepled under his chin. “Everyone warned him not to do it, but he tried, and he failed, and now…”

 

His voice trails off, but Aerys understands. He rubs at Jaehaerys’s shoulders comfortingly, making sure not to wrinkle his black cape. They were in Jaehaerys’s bedchambers before the funeral, and it was thankfully deserted, just the new king and his son. Shaera had wanted to go talk to him after he’d shut himself up in the chambers, but Aerys had insisted. He was certain that he knew his father best, knew what he needed.

 

“King Aegon thought he needed dragons to rule,” Aerys says. “He was determined. But it was never meant to be.”

“I just...I don’t understand,” Jaehaerys says. “I thought I knew my father. Maybe...maybe what they say about the Targaryen coin is true. I don’t even want to go to his funeral, but I must.”

“Yes,” Aerys says. “You’ll be all right, Father.”

Jaehaerys nods, then stops. He looks up at his son searchingly, violet eyes piercing. “Shaera said that you believed he could do it. She said you’d dreamt about dragons, as well.”

“I misinterpreted those dreams,” Aerys says simply. “And besides. You don’t need dragons to rule, I know that now. Not if you’re a dragon yourself.”


	4. Valar Morghulis/Even a Dragon Must Die

“Your father is to be king now,” Tywin says, and Aerys hums in response, picking up a dagger from the streetside forge. It’s not castle-made by any means, but good work, nonetheless.

Across the street, in another stall, a pretty common girl smiles and winks at him. Aerys smirks at her in response, still fingering the dagger.

_ “So,” _ Tywin presses on, “you’ll be next in line for the throne.”

“Why yes, that  _ is _ how the line of succession works,” Aerys says. “Good job, Tywin.”

 

The common girl is still smiling at him. Perhaps he should convince the guards to take her back to the castle. Rhaella is still nursing anyway, not up for anything, and she was so  _ boring  _ anyway. Even if this girl is just common filth, she does have some nice tits--

 

“Aerys,” Tywin says, but it sounds more like a hiss, as Tywin pushes the name through gritted teeth. “We should be more careful. And you should stop spending time in brothels, for that matter. They’re unprotected, and what would the common folk think? You’d be exposed, open to attack, and the optics--”

“Since when do optics matter?” Aerys asks, finally dropping the dagger back onto the table. “The Targaryens have been ruling for centuries, and it’s not as if we ask the common folk for help on how to rule. If a prince or a king concerned himself entirely with his image among his subjects, he would not rule properly. I will visit brothels whenever I damn well please, and take home whomever I’d like to bed, Tywin, and it’s none of your concern. To hell with protection or security; I’m not some fragile  _ thing. _ I am a dragon, and that is why _ I _ will be king and  _ you _ will not.”

Aerys turned to the guard assigned to him and said, “Make sure that that girl ends up in my chambers, later. Someone so pretty deserves a reward.”

 

Aerys sauntered off down the street without checking to see if Tywin would follow. He knew he would, after all. Aerys is his prince.

 

***

 

From his vantage point at the coronation ceremony, he is able to spot a rather pretty girl that he hadn’t seen before.

Long, golden blonde hair, wide green eyes. She wore a heavy velvet gown of red with golden trim that matched her hair, and Aerys liked the gown very much, for how it accentuated her figure. He wondered what she would look like without the gown on.

 

Rhaella seemed to like the gown as well, for how she rambles on about it to Princess Mela at the feast, afterward. “So gorgeous,” she says, casting another glance at the girl, “so delicately made. I do wonder who her dressmaker is, and if I could get ahold of him--”

“Princess Rhaella, you look just as stunning,” Princess Mela assures her, smiling sweetly and running a hand along Rhaella’s red lace. Aerys wants to gag. 

“Yes, but Joanna looks magnificent,” Rhaella says. “I believe she outshines everyone at this feast--excepting you, of course, Princess Mela.”

 

“Joanna? That’s her name?” Aerys asks, cutting off Princess Mela. She was only going to throw out another compliment, anyway.

“Oh...yes, Joanna Lannister,” Princess Mela says. She exchanges a look with Rhaella quickly.

“Lannister?” Aerys snorts. “How could someone so pretty be related to Tywin?”

“She’s his cousin, I believe,” Princess Mela says. “Prince Aerys, wouldn’t you agree that Princess Rhaella looks just as stunning as Lady Joanna, tonight?”

 

Rhaella puts a hand over Princess Mela’s, but it’s too late. Aerys snorts and turns, looking Rhaella up and down. “I see you still haven’t lost all the baby weight,” he says.

Rhaella blushes, and Princess Mela’s expression closes, though she holds her tongue. Good. Aerys will rule over her, one day. “My prince,” Rhaella says, “my  _ husband. _ Our son Rhaegar has not received a visit from you in a long time. I know you are busy with princely duties, and I would expect no less of you. Our father the King has taken off tonight, however, and so should you. I was hoping you would come by my chambers tonight? His bassinet is located in the rooms. Perhaps we could experience some family time tonight, on this blessed night.”

Aerys frowns. Perhaps Rhaella is right--especially with what that woods witch said, about Rhaegar…

 

Something flickers in his chest, and it feels a bit like a needle, poking him. Aerys sets his jaw, and forces himself to move from that topic. “Perhaps another night,” he says.

Rhaella deflates, and Princess Mela rubs her hand slowly across Rhaella’s shoulder.

Aerys pays them no mind, and flags down the nearest servant.

 

“Send a message to Lady Joanna,” he says. “Tell her that I would like to have a private meeting with her in my bedchambers tonight. Sooner rather than later, if she’s able.”

 

***

 

“Oh, we shouldn’t,” Joanna moans. Her voice is high and clear, sweet as honey, and Aerys looks up from his work on her neck to kiss her mouth once more.

“It’s a celebration tonight,” he says. “We’re celebrating.”

Joanna giggles. Her skin is white as milk, and sweet to taste, and Aerys slowly moves lower. Joanna gasps. 

“I am betrothed,” she murmurs. “Some might say that this is  _ improper. _ ”

“And I am married,” Aerys says. “Yet here we are.”

Joanna laughs again, and grabs hold of his shoulders. She has soft, delicate fingers, though her grip is strong. Aerys likes her. He likes her very much.

 

Joanna flips them over, her on top and him on the bottom, and looks at him. Her pupils blown wide, lips swollen and red. Her hair, undone from all the intricate braids, hangs loose and long around them like a golden curtain.

She grins at him, and lowers herself down, down, down.

 

Aerys gasps, and bucks upward.

“Gods,” he says, “and you say you haven’t done this before?”

 

***

 

“Our food supply has grown limited, according to reports from Lord Tyrell,” Edgar Sloane tells Jaehaerys and Aerys. “The harvest was poor during summer, and the glass gardens are not faring well due to an infestation that the Tyrells are currently investigating. Although the maesters in the Citadel believe that summer is approaching, they do not have an exact estimate. We’ll have to wait two to three months, at best, and so we should ration accordingly. I fear the reaction from the common folk, however. There have already been reports of protests and riots, in areas like Flea Bottom, and they will only grow as we begin to ration.”

Jaehaerys nods, pressing his lips together. He pulls out a quill and ink and goes over the list of figures that Sloane had set before him, making notes in the margins.

 

Aerys tries his best not to yawn. He turns his head up to the ceiling, and watches as one of the patterned drapes sway back and forth in one of the draughts that plagued the castle. It was quiet in the Tower of the Hand, with only the occasional caw of ravens and Jaehaerys’s coughs to break up the silence. Although it should have been peaceful, Aerys found that he didn’t enjoy it much. He almost found himself wishing for more sound, maybe even the screeches of two-year-old Rhaegar as he ran around the main floors of the Red Keep. Normally Aerys found the sound grating, but anything would be better than this incredible boredom that he was faced with.   
  


“Aerys,” Jaehaerys says, and Aerys sits up in his chair, pulling his eyes from the ceiling. “Yes, Father?”

 

“Does this look like the appropriate rationing to sustain our kingdom until summer comes?” Jaehaerys asks, sliding the paper over to Aerys.

Aerys gives the paper a cursory glance, feeling the eyes of both Sloane and Jaehaerys upon him. “Yes, Your Grace,” Aerys says, “your math is impeccable, as always.”

“Wrong,” Jaehaerys says, and Aerys snaps to meet Jaehaerys’s eyes. Normally violet, his eyes seemed to be black, and narrowed. Matched with Jaehaerys’s drained, white complexion, he almost looked like a waxen figure.

A very, very angry waxen figure.

“Lord Sloane, if you could be so kind as to give me and my son the room,” Jaehaerys says.

Sloane blinks. “But this is the common space for the Hand’s...I mean, of course, Your Grace. I’ll be sure to notify everyone that you’re not to be disturbed.”

 

As Sloane shut the chamber doors, Jaehaerys asks calmly, “Do you know why I asked you to come along to a private appointment between me and my Hand?”

“So I could shadow you, and learn how to govern the kingdom when I become King one day,” Aerys says quietly.

“And yet you clearly weren’t paying attention,” Jaehaerys says. “I gave you a sheet full of wrong figures, and you didn’t notice because you were too busy daydreaming. Ruling isn’t a joke, Aerys.”

“I know, Father.”

_ “No,  _ you don--” Jaehaerys began, but a coughing fit seized him. Jaehaerys leaned against the table, and pulled out his handkerchief, coughing long and hard into it. It ran on for too long, and when Jaehaerys finally quit, his handkerchief was soaked in red blood.

“I’ll run to Maester Pycelle,” Aerys says, his eyes widening. “I’m sure there’s something that can be done--”

 

“There’s nothing to be done,” Jaehaerys says, his voice quieter, more strained than it was before. Beads of sweat were gathering on his forehead. “Except for milk of the poppy.”

Aerys shakes his head. His heart is beating so fast in his chest, he fears it will collapse in on itself.“That’s not true,” Aerys says, “I’m certain there’s something--I’ll write to the Citadel. I’m sure the maesters there would have a cure, something, anything.”

Jaehaerys only shakes his head. His eyes were still dark, but downcast. He was gripping his handkerchief so hard that his knuckles were turning bone-white. “I’ve always been sickly, and you knew that, child. It’s just catching up with me, now more than ever. That’s all that it is.”

“Is that what Grand Maester Pycelle would have you believe? Perhaps we should find a new Grand Maester then, he obviously isn’t doing his job properly.” Aerys’s voice is quickening as he speaking, growing in pitch and urgency at the same time. “There’s got to be--there’s got to be a way around this.”

Jaehaerys sighs. “I need you to begin attending more meetings with me, maybe even join in on some small council meetings. I’ll have you begin to take my place for meeting with subjects, and--”

“No, you can’t just give up like that!” Aerys is nearly shouting. “There’s a way to beat this, a way around this, and you’re not even  _ looking. _ ”

 

Jaehaerys wipes the sweat from his forehead, and eases himself into one of the chairs. “Aerys,” he says, his voice heavy and low. The dark circles around his eyes seem to grow, and his face, so pale and white, seems to be hidden in a shadow that came from nowhere at all. “There is no way around death, as much as I’d like there to be. So please, just...listen. For once, just listen, and do as I tell you.”

 

***

 

That night, Aerys dreams again of corpses, and of dragons.

 

The dragon flies above the corpses, spewing gold-red flames downward, trying to impede their movements. The air is cold, however, and the flame begins to dissipate, too weak to kill the blue-eyed corpses as they march forward mindlessly.

The corpses are marching--or stomping, rather--through heavy snow, getting thicker and heavier through the wet snowflakes plunging through the air. Even with the clean scent of fresh snow wafting through the air, as well as the pungent scent of dragon smoke, the smell of rot and death pervades the atmosphere. The dragon screams out more and more dragonflame, but the blizzard is too heavy. The corpses continue to march forward, unaffected.

The dragon circles lower, lower, lower, but as it gets closer to the corpses, the more corpses there seem to be. It spews more and more flame, but the remaining corpses continue onward. The dragon screams and drops itself onto the snowy field, crushing several of the corpses with its enormous body.

The dragon breathes fire, and screams, and breathes more fire, but it doesn’t ever seem to stop. The dead only move ever onward. The dragon wheels around, breathing out a circle, a cyclone of flame, but the more corpses it destroys, the more corpses seem to march out of the thick white vale of blizzard. They are unstoppable--there are too many of them--this dragon, pale as snow, cannot keep up with the snowy corpses.

The dragon turns its head to breathe out more flame, and that’s when it sees  _ it. _

 

It must be an agent of one of the Seven Hells. Although it has eyes as blue as the corpses, it is not a corpse itself. Or perhaps it is--something more powerful, more sinister. A corrupted form of the corpses, if that were possible. Its blue eyes seemed to shine with a cold, humorless mirth. It had white, cold skin, like frozen flesh. The air seemed colder now--as though it itself had frozen upon the arrival of this thing, this  _ demon. _

The dragon reels back, unhinging its jaw to unleash more flame, and that’s when it strikes.

 

A thin spear covered in ice crystals jabs up into the dragon’s throat, lodging in between its large cream scales. The dragon chokes, and coughs, and the thing moves again, jabbing the spear into its chest now. The dragon stutters out flame, and stumbles.

It drips hot, red-gold blood onto the snow.

 

The demon smiles and laughs--a sound like cracking ice.

 

The dragon is dying.

The dragon is  _ dying. _

 

The dragon can die, and it is dying, here and now, defeated by ice and cold and death.

 

***

 

“Aerys?”

 

Rhaella’s hair is knotted and mussed up by sleep. When she sits up, she has to do it carefully, keeping one hand on her growing stomach. Maester Pycelle had said during her last visit that she was about six months along--perhaps the baby could arrive before King Jaehaerys--

Aerys cut off that train of thought before he could finish it.

 

“Aerys, are you all right?” Rhaella asks. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I just--had a bad dream, that’s all,” Aerys says softly. “And I...it’s not as if I could have climbed into my parents’ beds,” he says, aiming for a joke but falling somewhat flat. “So, I…”

“Aerys,” she says, “Talk to me.”

 

Aerys presses his lips together. Rhaella smiles at him, a bit nervously, and moves over in her bed to make room for him. Aerys perches himself on the very edge of the bed. 

“I had...what felt like a dragon dream,” Aerys says carefully, “but it couldn’t have been.”

“Tell me,” Rhaella says. “And we can figure out if it was one.”

“I hope it wasn’t,” Aerys says quickly. “It was--there was a dragon. Pale as snow. And it was trying to defeat those corpses, and it kept breathing flame, but there was always more, and more, and more of them. Enough to fill up all the Seven Kingdoms, it felt like. And so the dragon just got closer, and closer, and that’s when--there was...a demon, like ice, and it--it just killed the dragon, in two strikes.”

Rhaella nods carefully, rubbing at her stomach.

 

Aerys eyes her baby bump. “How’s the--you know--”

“It’s your child, too,” Rhaella says, a bit sharply. Aerys winces. “They’re fine. Maester Pycelle can’t tell if it’s a girl or boy, yet. They’re more peaceful than Rhaegar was, anyway. I hardly ever feel them kicking.”

“That’s good,” Aerys says quietly.

“Aerys,” she says suddenly, “I know you never wanted this. Us, or our children--and I didn’t either, you know that, but I need you to know, when you sleep around with half of King’s Landing--”

 

“It’s what men  _ do, _ ” Aerys says sharply.

 

“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Rhaella says, her hands tightening into fists. “If you’re to be King, you should fucking  _ control _ yourself, because when you do what men do, it’s at the expense of my and Rhaegar’s reputations. I may not love you, but I do love my son, and I do respect myself,  _ brother.  _ And it’s not as if you’re doing wonders for your own reputation, either.”

 

Aerys slaps her.

Rhaella pulls herself off the bed as quickly as she can, and backs up one, two, three steps, putting more and more distance in between her and him. 

 

Aerys stands up.

He feels off-balance--his blood feels like it’s running too hot in his veins. Aerys unfolds and folds his hands up again. He paces around Rhaella’s chambers.

Aerys moves toward Rhaella’s chamber doors.

 

He shouldn’t have come here.

 

He knew that now.

 

He knew that Rhaella always managed to make him feel worse. That was just her way.

 

“Maybe it’s a warning,” Rhaella says, as he reaches the doors. Her voice is shaking, but there’s a steel edge there that Aerys doesn’t like. “Your stupid dragon dreams. Maybe it means that you need to examine yourself, or you’ll get caught,  _ Prince  _ Aerys.”

 

Aerys slams the doors behind him.

 

***

 

“Perhaps we should be out here with  _ more  _ than just one guard,” Steffon says nervously, eyeing a passing child with an incredible amount of suspicion. The beggar child, noticing his stare, grimaces at Steffon, revealing a mouth full of rotting, black teeth. Steffon shudders.

 

“I just want to go to a damn brothel,” Aerys says. “I don’t need an army of forty men to do that.”

“We’re near Flea Bottom,” Steffon says. “The better brothels are uptown.”

“I decide where we get the whores, and I pay,” Aerys snaps. “If you don’t want to get fucked, then fuck off.”

“Gods, calm down,” Steffon says. “I was just saying.”

 

Steffon was actually right. Aerys’s favorite brothel was only a ten minute walk from the Red Keep, and there was a gorgeous Volantene there, known for her flexibility. She was a new favorite for Aerys, and he knew that Steffon wanted a go at her, especially if Aerys was paying.

But better brothels meant that more highborns were likely to be there, and thus, more of a chance for word to spread about the Crowned Prince’s adventures. The last thing that Aerys wanted was for his father or Rhaella to try and scold him again. 

Hence, the lower town. Sex was still sex, even if it wasn’t an especially flexible Volentene.

 

Aerys walks forward, head held high. He’d gotten a recommendation from one of the squires in the training grounds. There was apparently a gorgeous blonde there, with huge tits and--

 

A rotten onion hit Aerys directly in the face.

“What in the  _ seven hells-- _ ”

 

“Your Highness!” A thin, screeching voice calls. Aerys whips his head around, and finds a gaunt-looking girl staring at him from about twenty feet away. Her cheekbones strained against her thin face, and her eyes looked sunken into their sockets. She gripped another rotting onion with fingers that were as pale and skinny as bones. “You look hungry,” she says, “so I thought I’d feed you some of my dinner.”

The people of Flea Bottom pause to stare at the girl, and then at the Crown Prince. Aerys presses his lips together, and wipes the rotten onion juices off his cheek. He kicks the vegetable away with his feet.

 

“Seize her,” Aerys tells his guard. Steffon steps in front of Aerys protectively, and withdraws his sword from his scabbard. Aerys does the same, keeping his eyes locked on the girl.

 

“What, afraid I’ll say what everyone here already knows?” She screeches, baring her teeth like a rabid dog. She’s missing too many teeth, and Aerys can see her red, sore-covered tongue poking through the empty sockets in her mouth. “I’ll be dead in a week anyway, because of your father’s rations!”

“I apologize for that,” Aerys says calmly. “The harvest was poor this year, and we’re hoping to prevent starvation, goodwoman.”

“Starvation? Look at me! Look around you!” She gestures wildly with her arms. “You eat feasts in your fucking castle, while I get to feast on  _ this!” _

She hurls another onion at Aerys, just as the guard grabs the girl. He lifts her up as she begins to kick and scream, punching at his steel armor uselessly. The guard tosses her over his shoulder, and says, “Your Grace, it would be safest to leave now.”

Indeed, he seemed to be right. A small crowd had begun to gather around the scene, and although Aerys and Steffon both had swords, it was likely that they could be overwhelmed. While Aerys doubted that they would attack him, he’d still rather not find out.

 

“You’re right,” Aerys says, sheathing his sword again. Steffon keeps his in front of him. Aerys would make sure to reward him for his loyalty, when they got back to the castle. 

 

“Let her go!” One of the commonfolk shouts. Another joins in, piping up, “She wasn’t trying to hurt you, Your Grace!”

“She was publicly humiliating me,” Aerys says, frowning. His hands curl up into fists, staring at the emaciated girl thrown over his guard’s shoulder. “And for that, there must be consequences.”

The girl is still thrashing against the guard’s grip, though she couldn’t weigh more than seventy pounds. An easy catch, by all means. 

 

This story would spread by the end of the day. Everyone would know of the girl who had thrown an onion at the  _ crowned prince. _ And that...That was unacceptable. A dragon didn’t take hits like that lying down.

“You say you’re starving?” Aerys can’t help himself from saying. “I’ll make sure the guards feed you my scraps, while you’re locked up in the Black Cells.”

The girl screams again, and punches against the guard’s shoulder. He doesn’t even seem to notice as he says, “I think we should go, Your Grace. Now.”

 

Aerys turns around, only to find the crowd pressing in on them.

 

“You think starving is funny, boy?” An older man asks. His body is withered and hunched over in his cloak, but his voice is low and crackling. Menacing. Aerys involuntarily takes a step backward, bumping into Steffon. “I’ve had to deal with starving for  _ years, _ while your family lollygagged in your fancy fucking castle. I’ve lost children to starvation. I lost my  _ wife  _ to starvation.”

“Let her go,” a young boy says, brandishing a carving knife. “She didn’t do nothing to you.”

“Are you threatening me?” Aerys asks. “I’ll have you all locked up. I swear it. Step  _ back. _ ”

“These rations will kill us,” a woman says. “Tell us you’ll stop them, and we won’t harm a hair on your pretty little head.”

“My father is your  _ ruler,” _ Aerys hisses, pulling his sword out again. 

“This ain’t his territory. This ain’t yours, neither.”

“We’re  _ starving!” _ Someone shouts. Another joins in. More and more and more, and Aerys feels tight, like he can’t breathe right. He holds his sword out farther, trying to build more distance between him and the rest of them, but they seemed to press in ever-closer. He heard Steffon growl at one of them, and the guard seemed to be shouting.

There couldn’t be more than fifteen people surrounding them, but even so, that meant that they were vastly outnumbered. Aerys’s hand felt sweaty against the pommel of his sword, and he struggled to keep his arm steady.

 

A rotten tomato soared through the air, landing with a  _ splat  _ on Steffon’s leather jerkin. Another landed on Aerys’s velvet doublet, and another was thrown at his guard, who whirled around, the girl on his shoulder no better than a screaming rag doll.

“Come on and fight, you cowards!” Aerys screamed. Although fear was coursing through his body like a shockwave, he  _ refused  _ to die in Flea Bottom, of all places. He was a dragon, unburnt by fire, and he would not be taken down by people weaker than a rotting corpse. “If you want to hit your Crowned Prince, give it your best shot before I have your  _ heads.” _

 

“Aerys--” Steffon begins, but before he can finish, Aerys feels a sharp blade stab deep into his stomach.

 

Aerys looks down. A child looks back up, emaciated and beggarlike. He smiles, revealing a mouth full of rotting teeth. The child pulls the knife out just as quickly, and it’s a serrated butcher’s knife, now dripping with his blood.

 

Aerys sinks to his knees, and the crowd suddenly parts like butter. He hears someone calling his name, and the child is swept away in all of the madness. Someone is shouting about beheading everyone in Flea Bottom--his guard?--and Steffon is there, gripping his shoulder and asking if Aerys was alright, if Aerys could hear him.

 

Aerys looks down, and sees the blood spilling out from his stomach onto his hands. The cobblestoned path underneath him has large splatters of Aerys’s blood dripping onto it. Aerys feels cold, or maybe lightheaded--he feels a sharp chill at the back of his neck, like a blizzard had suddenly hit in the middle of summer.

 

_ Even a dragon can die, _ he thinks, somewhat nonsensically.  _ Valar morghulis. _

 

But he wasn’t a man. He was a dragon.  _ Even a dragon can die. _

 

“I don’t want to die,” he whispers. He puts a palm on the cobblestoned path, hard and cold as the wind surrounding him. “I don’t want to die.”

 

“You won’t,” Steffon says, and suddenly his face is swimming in front of him, and then underneath him. He’s been picked up--by who?--the knight, he’s been picked up by his guard. “We’ll get you back to the Red Keep, Aerys. Don’t worry.”

 

Aerys turns to look at the cobblestones underneath him. Some are still spattered with his blood, so much that it seems that some patches have already grown brown. How long has he been here? Much too long.

 

_ Valar morghulis. _

 

_ Even a dragon can die. _

 

There’s a sharp pain in his stomach, and Aerys closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the icy chill surrounding him.

 

***

 

Aerys wakes to Rhaella gripping onto his hand tightly.

 

As his eyes begin to flutter, she smiles a small half-smile, and rubs her thumb across his knuckles. “You’ve gained a battle scar,” she tells him.

“How long was I out?” Aerys asks. He’s been dressed in fresh linens, and as he shifts upward into a sitting position, he can feel coarse, tight bandages pressing against his abdomen.

“Only a few hours,” Rhaella says. “Maester Pycelle was kind enough to give you milk of the poppy, even though you didn’t really need it.”

 

“Didn’t really need it?” Aerys asks, frowning a bit. “I thought I was dying.”

 

“Only a few stitches, love,” she says.

 

“But…” Aerys sighs. “I felt so cold...it seemed like there was so much blood.”

 

“No more than there should have been,” Rhaella says. “Pycelle thinks you might have passed out from the shock of it, more than anything else.”

“Oh,” Aerys says. He turns to look at her, really drink her in. She’s beautiful, really. The traditional violet eyes and white hair of a Targaryen, same as him. He feels something uncomfortable tighten up in his belly, like a cramp. Perhaps the milk of the poppy hadn’t fully taken effect.

“You seem pale,” Aerys says, because she does. Droplets of sweat seem to be beading at the top of her forehead.

 

She only shook her head. She seemed to wrap herself around her belly more carefully, though. “It’s nothing,” she says. “I only bled a little. Maester Pycelle isn’t concerned.”

“So your--our--child is okay?” 

She nods. “You scared Rhaegar, by the way,” she says, almost as an afterthought. “All bloodied up and carried in by your guard. It took some calming down to get him to stop crying.”

 

“I scared myself,” Aerys admits. “I thought...I thought I was going to die.”

 

Rhaella only shakes her head. “What were you thinking, going down to Flea Bottom? You’ve heard Father’s small council, you know that there’s unrest in the lower sections because of the new rations.”

Aerys shakes his head. “I just...made a mistake, that’s all. I didn’t think about that.”

“Didn’t  _ think _ about that? You’re to be the next King, after Father! How does something like that slip your mind?”

“I was thinking of other things!” Aerys protests.

Rhaella nearly scoffs. “Other things, what  _ other  _ things. What could be so important that you--”

 

Aerys sees when it dawns on Rhaella’s face. Her eyes darken from their usual violet to a stormy purple, near-black, and she scrunches up her nose. She snatches her hand away from Aerys’s, and stands up so quickly that she’s forced to balance herself against Aerys’s bed. 

“I already know what you’re doing,” Rhaella says. Her voice is emotionless. “Perhaps don’t trouble yourself to hide it so much next time, since you almost  _ risked your life, _ and whatnot.”

 

Aerys can feel the bite of her sarcasm like a bitter wind, and she storms out without a second thought, hands pressed on top of her stomach. 

Aerys sighs. The uncomfortable cramping feeling in his stomach is back.

He settles himself against his pillows, and brings a hand down to poke gently at his wounds. An icy finger of fear trails down him again, and he shivers.

 

He doesn’t want to die.

He never wants to die.

He almost died.

And there would surely be more attempts on him, as he grew up.

 

_ “Valar morghulis,” _ he whispers to himself.

 

Even a dragon must die.

 

And yet, Aerys still did not want to die.

Where would that leave him?


End file.
